Lying From You
by elenwyn
Summary: Oneshot, Lily's P.o.v. Angsty, but fluffy at the end, includes selfharm. He always seems to know when I’ve done it. Always sees through the lies I tell to cover it up. Always.


**A.N**: This started off as a bit of a diary entry, my own diary, but it turned into this story. No idea how that happened of course. This, again, is in Lily's P.o.v, when she's in seventh year, and it's a little darker 'cause it talks about self-harm. Still, there's some fluffiness at the end, so enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I do own the Harry Potter books! But only the ones on my bookshelves...

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I hate all this pressure on me. I mean, there's so much people want me to do, expectations they want me to reach. I just can't cope sometimes. I have to let it out.

I never mean to do it, really. But it's my only way of getting rid of the frustration that builds up inside, the weight that's constantly on my shoulders.

The first time I cut myself, I used my quill, making the tip as sharp as possible. That was in 5th year, when the O.W.Ls were going on. I didn't make myself bleed; I just drew red lines on the back of my arm, making them cross over each other, join up with each other.

I couldn't feel any pain, just this numbing feeling, and it felt good, releasing all my frustration out on my arm. It made me feel better, like I could cope with everything more.

I stopped for about a week, but started up again the day the tests finished, when Potter caused that scene in the grounds. You've probably heard about it, most people have, even the first years that started school this year, and the incident happened two years ago.

I cried for hours after that argument, in the bathroom I shared with my friends in our dormitory. That's when I spotted the scissors.

After that, it became an irregular habit. Whenever I felt everything was too much, I'd cut myself.

Before you ask, no, my arms aren't covered in scars…I said I did it irregularly, but that doesn't mean I haven't got any, I just cover my arms up.

I've drawn blood before, but nothing too deep. The scars that I do have no-one takes notice of, and if they do, it's nothing that I can't cover up by making an excuse.

Except to him. He always seems to know when I've done it. Always sees through the lies I tell to cover it up. Always.

He came up to me once in the Common Room, and told me that, 'he knew when I was hurting, because when I hurt, he hurts.' He said that, 'every time I scarred myself, it was another scar that was embedded in his heart because he could do nothing to help me.'

I made my usual snide remark, brushing him off and telling him I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. But I knew really.

Before he left, he told me that next time I felt like it, to tell him, to go and talk to him instead, even if it was only to shout at him like I usually did.

I made a mental promise to myself to forget all that he said, forget that he was being kind and imagine he was still the arrogant, selfish person I had known before. And for the most part, I did.

But that dreadful night, that horrible night when I received the news that my parents had died, no, had been _murdered_, I remembered. Just as the blade had begun to dig into my flesh, drawing more blood than it ever had done before, his voice came unbidden into my mind, making me listen to his words over and over. I shakily put down the scissors, watching as the blood from the small wound trickle down my arm. At that point, I felt that I just had to speak to him.

Cautiously, I made my way to his room, holding my cut arm in my good hand, and knocked quietly on the door.

He opened it, eyes going wide when he saw me. I must have looked a sight; my dark red hair was tousled and sticking out everywhere, my once bright emerald eyes had dimmed and clouded over, and the rims of my eyes were red and puffy from crying. The blood from my arm had found its way to the curve of my wrist, almost lapping at the palm of my hand.

He wordlessly ushered me inside, letting me sit on his soft, warm bed. I all but got in completely, wrapping the covered around me like a protective shield, staring blankly at an invisible speck and cradling my bleeding arm, while he sat down by my side, not saying anything.

He just stroked my hair softly, untangling the locks with his fingers, and thinking rather than speaking gentle words of comfort.

We sat like that for a while, until I noticed the pain in my arm had disappeared, and with that disappearance, came the new pain of my heart aching as I remembered that I would never see my parents again. I turned towards him, tears leaking out of my eyes once more, and began to cry softly onto his shoulder. His strong arms enveloped me and held me tight, making me feel safe. He rubbed small circles into my back with his hand as I let the tears fall.

After I don't know how long, my sobbing had subsided into faint hiccups, and, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I pulled away, letting my gaze travel to his face for the first time.

He looked like he hadn't been sleeping either, his black hair was even more messy than usual, there were bags under his eyes and, behind his glasses, his hazel eyes were filled with worry. It was a minute before I realised that the worry reflected in his eyes was directed at me.

"Promise me something," he said softly, his hand reaching up to play with a strand of my hair, "Promise me you won't do it again."

His arm fell and one finger grazed gently over the newly-healed cut, making me flinch slightly.

"Promise me," he breathed, moving closer to me, very close.

I didn't even have time to nod, and found myself moving closer to him as well, wanting to be held by him once more. He bent down to my height and captured my lips in a soft kiss, which I immediately returned. It was like nothing I'd everexperienced before.

During that kiss, I felt all my pain seep out of me, like he was drinking all of it up, taking it away. I wrapped my arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, sending a silent thank-you to him for getting rid of everything that had burdened my heart for so long.

We pulled away eventually and, looking into his eyes, I knew he would always be there to protect me and comfort me, and that I wouldn't have to hold all the pain inside of me, because he would be there to help me let it out. I couldn't help but let out a small smile, which he returned before kissing me once more.

"I promise," I whispered in his ear when we broke away again, leaning my head against his chest and listening to his heat beat. He wrapped his arms around me and placed a kiss to my forehead, giving me that safe and wanted feeling all over again.

I decided at that point to let him; to let him help me revert back to the girl I once was, the girl that laughed and joked and was happy. He was going to be my anti-drug, and I found that thought extremely comforting.

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**A.N:** I worked on that all this week, in between school-work and friends coming up to talk to me in breaks (or rather, try to snatch the book off me to see what I was writing) so I kept losing what I was going to put. But never-mind, that's what friends are for, eh? 


End file.
